Everybody Who Hates Harry Here, Raise Their Hand
by T.J. Lauren
Summary: A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort!  A Oneshot Anthology, with occasional Perry/Harry slash.   #6 The Way You Touch, The Way You Move
1. He Was Singing

**Yo, everybody! **To my old readers, welcome back, and I hope you stick around for my newer work. If you are curious about what is going on with my older work, see my profile. To my new readers, welcome! I've been hovering at the fringes of the KKBB community for a long time, and FINALLY finished a fic for you guys! This is going to be a collection of one-shots, some are things I just come up with, but most are fills for prompts and challenges by some of the writing and KKBB communities over at LiveJournal. This little anthology is not that dissimilar from my FMA collection "Chalk Dust". I will post as bits and pieces are completed, so updates will be sporadic at best.

**Title: **He Was Singing

**Summary: **The wound had not killed him, but it had come damned close. The shattered rib and torn lung had healed long ago, but sometimes, it still felt like it was still killing him.

**Co****pyrights Disclaimer: **Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

**Warnings/Rating: **Spoilers, PG-13 for language, violence, and hints of homosexuality.

**Promptfill:** Prompt 09) If I was in pain I know you'd sing me soothing songs; from the "If You Were…" challenge at the 5_Prompts community at LiveJournal.

* * *

Perry felt his eye twitch in irritation. Harry kept frowning and casting concerned glances at him across the dinner table. Thankfully, the younger man had as of yet said nothing about the blow Perry had taken earlier when the target caught them photographing him, or the consequent wincing and low hisses. It figured the bastard would have nailed Perry right in his old wound. Harry said nothing of this.

Likewise, Perry said nothing of the concern written all over the ex-thief's face. Instead, the two stubbornly kept eating their spaghetti and discussing the important facts of the case.

When his plate was empty, Harry pushed it back and paused a moment, his eyes locked on Perry. He opened his mouth to say something, but Perry stood abruptly. He blinked as his vision turned blurry for a split second, and when it cleared, Harry was watching him, and _still_ with the concerned puppy eyes!

"I'll clean up, Harry," the detective said, picking up his roommate's plate and heading for the sink.

Harry's chair grated against the floor as he stood as well. "But it's my turn tonight, Per," he protested. "You cooked, so it's my turn to wash up."

"I've got it, Harry," Perry said. "Go pick a movie or something, I'll be out in a few minutes."

Harry didn't move. Perry ignored him and started scrubbing tomato sauce off the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. He didn't look up, but he knew the younger man was watching him, waiting for another wince or twinge of discomfort. He steeled himself, determined not to let anything show. He was irritated with himself; it had healed months ago. Why was it still hurting at all?

* * *

_The man swung around, gun in hand, and Perry didn't think, just dove in front of the younger man, bringing his own pistol up. "Harry, no!" Two shots rang out, and his chest lit on fire. Perry dropped to the ground. Harry collapsed next to him._

_He lay there gasping, eyes roving as he tried to move, to get up, to fight. He let out a groan. He couldn't breath, couldn't see. Every nerve was on fire. He could feel blood soaking his clothes, feel his lung collapsing, feel the bullet moving with every twitch of his body, but he couldn't get up._

_He hadn't seen the thug with the gun fall, and now he could hear footsteps approaching. He had to get up! He was in danger… and Harmony was in danger… Harry was in danger! _

_Harry was on his knees, crawling over to Perry. "Come on, we gotta go!" he gasped. "Perry!"_

_The feet came closer, and the thug appeared, ugly sneer on his ugly face, revolver in hand. Dexter was strolling along next to him, smirking over the barrel of his own gun. They circled the downed men, guns directed at Perry's head, but he couldn't move. Just watch as they stopped._

"_Perry. Nice to have known you," Dexter said, smiling pleasantly. He looked over at the gasping form kneeling over the detective and nodded. "Ah, yes, Harry. From New York."_

_He turned his gun - Perry was frozen, he couldn't move, why couldn't he move? - and fired, and Harry collapsed next to him, eyes unseeing. Perry couldn't move. He felt like screaming, like pulling Harry's limp form into his arms, like strangling Dexter with his bare hands…except he still. couldn't. MOVE._

_Dexter was still smiling, that cold, Hollywood smile, his gun pointed at Perry's head now. "Ouch," he said. He pulled the trigger._

It was black in front of his eyes when they finally tore themselves open. Perry arched his back as he woke with a strangled gasp, before collapsing back on the bed. A loud groan made his throat ache and his chest rattle. He put a hand to his ribs, even the light pressure from the weight of the limb causing tears to spring to his eyes. Teeth grinding, he sat up gingerly on the bed and tested himself. Drawing in the slightest, gentlest breath made him keel over on the bed, coughing and wheezing, wet lines of salt tracing down his face.

He could feel the attack settling in. His lungs were spasming, each twitch of pain building upon itself. He couldn't breath, couldn't see…every nerve was on fire…

Perry didn't hear his door open, or hear his roommate's feet padding across the hardwood floor. He was too focused on getting his lungs to take in air to feel the weight settling next to him on the bed, or the wiry arms taking him by the shoulders and pulling him back against a deceptively strong chest.

The first thing alerting him to Harry having entered the room at all was a warm right hand making its presence known on his brow and guiding his head back on the younger man's shoulder. His cheek pressed up just under Harry's jaw, and he could feel the ex-thief's voice reverberating through his throat. It took Perry a moment before the noise in his ears faded enough to let in the soft, calm voice, and even then it still sounded distorted and far away.

"Easy, Per, you're alright," Harry murmured, and Perry wanted to smack him and roll his eyes, because clearly he was not alright. Unfortunately, he was too busy wheezing for breath and trying to ignore the stabbing sensation in his right side, again, again, again, tearing through every inhale and exhale.

"Relax, Perry… remember your breathing exercises? C'mon, you can do it, just breath with me, okay?

He tried to match his own breathing to the other man's, slow and deep, in and out. His bullet-damaged lung was having none of it. What little vision he had of the darkened room silhouetted against the hall lights started to fizzle out, and it took him a moment to realize the pressure on his hand was Harry's hand, gently squeezing.

"Easy, easy…hold it for a few seconds, and try again. Come on, Perry, you can do this. Feel my breath?"

Perry _could_ feel it. He could feel Harry's chest filling with the sweet air that was denied him, the brunette letting it out again in a slow stream that tickled Perry's throat.

And he could, behind Harry's smooth voice and the steady hands stroking back his sweat-soaked hair, feel the brunette's terror, heartbeat racing and pounding like the hoof beats of a thoroughbred against his cheek. Distantly, Perry managed to grasp the notion that Harry was afraid.

Perry didn't want Harry to be frightened. He wanted Harry to smile, to laugh, to always see the world with that goofy, sunlit optimism that he'd had since Perry had met him over a year ago, covered in dirt and blood at a party guest-starring some of Los Angeles' most eligible fuck-ups.

Perry was floundering, struggling to gain a focus through the haze settling into his mind from pain and lack of oxygen, and he latched onto a single point of contact - Harry's hand was warm, and a little moist from nervous sweat. His fingers flexed a little - Perry's concentration briefly shattered to let his vision turn white… and then the scarred end of Harry's half-missing ring finger brushed against the back of Perry's own hand where it rested against the mostly mended bullet wound in his chest. Harry's old pain pressed to his old pain…there was some kind of romance to that, he supposed, but Harry was still straight and Perry was still suffocating.

Perry could still feel Harry's chest rising and falling against his back, sense the thief's heart hammering away, nearly drowning out the rumbling of that soft, earnest voice. The rhythm of it took root in his mind, and he sank into it, counting out time to the motion, the beat, the melody. Harry had him, and though he normally would never admit it, he felt reassured by the very presence of his warmth and life. Exhausted, he slumped back against the younger man, let it all just float away into the music…

Slowly, his breath eased, the tightness relaxed, the stabbing dulled. Perry felt his brain start working again, his mind clearing as oxygen finally reached it unhindered and without pain. The rushing in his ears faded out entirely, and with it no longer trying to drown out all other sounds, he could make sense out of what Harry was saying.

The idiot was singing to him.

Well… not literally, but he may as well have been. Harry was speaking low and slow and soft, and his voice was tender, drawling out the words in a gentle rumble. Perry's breathing finally evened out completely, matching the music, matching Harry. He let his eyes slip closed again in exhaustion. Harry's voice and his bare arms were warm and strong around him.

* * *

End

So this is the first of many promptfills and assorted onshots. Many of these can be considered sidestories and backstory for Bricks Without Clay, the KKBB/SH crossover I've been working on for the past year, pieces that didn't really fit with that but still count will end up stockpiled in here. Bricks Without Clay has NOT YET been posted, but the premiere date is fast approaching!

Please leave a review to let me know what you think!


	2. Stuck In Neutral

**Title: **Stuck In Neutral

**Summary:** He was an irrepressible idealist, not a naïve idiot.

**Copyrights Disclaimer: **Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language and implied homosexuality.

**Promptfill:** Prompt 11) If I was in darkness you would lead me to the light; from the "If You Were…" challenge at the 5_Prompts community at LiveJournal.

* * *

Perry was not a fool. He knew Los Angeles was not some conscious entity. It was not cruel, or friendly, dark, or light, or harsh, or hopeful, damning, or redeeming, or even impartial. It was just a city. All the "broken dreams" sob story crap people loved to sigh about was just that: sob story crap. He had lived in Los Angeles for more than half his life, had borne witness to the atmosphere and the people and the reality of the city. It was just a city.

Perry was not a fool. He knew that it was the _people _who became these things, who allowed themselves to be illusioned or disillusioned or what have you. He was unaffected personally because didn't believe in all that romantic crap. But somehow he'd gotten himself stuck with the biggest romantic sap of all time.

He pretended not to see Harry's disapproving _(disappointed)_ gaze every time he returned in the early morning hours from his latest one night stand; he rarely stayed the whole night at the fag-of-the-week's house. Perry tried not to notice when Harry would peel away from him in the street to go press a ten or a twenty that he really couldn't afford to give away into the hand of some homeless person, and refrained from sniping that the vagrant was probably just going to head straight to a dealer or a liquor store. He ignored the sad puppy eyes that appeared whenever they watched the news, the anchorwoman's face a starkly cold contrast to Harry's as she reported on murders, rapes, kidnappings, assaults.

He let these things go because if he acknowledged them, he would be forced to choose a side. Either he would shoot Harry down, or encourage his forlorn hopes further. Perry couldn't bring himself to do either. He was not a nice man, but he would not let himself become worse. Likewise, he was not the type to turn to blind faith.

But Harry wasn't truly up for blind faith either. He just believed so strongly in love, and in the goodness of people. It wasn't that he didn't realize there was such a thing as evil or darkness. Harry was an irrepressible idealist, not a naïve idiot. What made Harry so special was that he refused to believe that bad things were _inevitable_, and that made him hopeful where other people were cynical.

That hope was dangerous and fragile and beautiful. Dangerous because it set him up for disappointment at every turn. Fragile because any disappointment could be the one that broke it - and by proxy, broke Harry - for good. Beautiful because Harry knew these things, and still clung to his hope like a life raft, and it made him into this wonderful, _powerful _creature.

Perry may not have shared that hope, but he certainly shared the glow of it, the sense of peace and light. Harry carried it around like he had it tucked into his wallet, ready to pull out and hand off like the bills he gave to the needy people on the streets.

Sometimes Perry wanted to lock Harry up in their home and not let him leave, for fear that today would be the day that Harry's heart finally broke, and turned into one the dull souls that somehow he hadn't become yet. Perry couldn't quite believe that Harry had made it _thirty-seven_ long fucking years, through New York, Los Angeles, divorce, prison, and _still _had so much hope for the world.

Sometimes, the sheer strength of that dangerous, fragile, beautiful, _powerful _thing made him believe it. Sometimes Harry made _him _hope too.

Perry was not a fool. He knew enough to know giving up Harry would be giving up on life. And that was okay, because he knew Harry wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. And if he did, Perry was almost certain Harry would insist on Perry's company. Perry certainly wouldn't protest.

* * *

End

Hmmm…these haven't been particularly positive so far…must rectify this! I'll try to make sure that the next couple will be more cheery. In any case, I hope you enjoy, and please be sure to leave a review letting me know what you think!


	3. The Breadwinner

**Title: **The Breadwinner

**Summary: **Harry never has to worry about where his next meal is coming from anymore, and that's almost a bigger gift than Perry's friendship itself.

**Copyrights Disclaimer: **Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

**Warnings/Rating: **PG-13 for language, criminal activity, and implied homosexuality.

**Promptfill: **10) If I was hungry you would feed me; from the "If You Were…" challenge at the 5_Prompts community at LiveJournal.

**Author's Note:** I'M TOO ELOQUENT TO WRITE HARRY. *cries* I keep having to dumb down my writing because my usual vocabulary sounds too fancy and educated (I'm an art history/literature major). WHICH SUCKS because I loves me some Harry! ;A; I'm so sorry I fail at writing you bb! Also, I am quickly starting to hate trying to post at Livejournal. The people there are wonderful, but it keeps trying to kill my formatting. :(

* * *

New York is absolutely frigid this time of year, especially at this time of night. You'd think, having grown up in Indiana, that I'd be used to the cold, but noooo. Give me a sweltering heat wave anytime. Now would be nice, actually. Because like I said, it's really fucking cold. It doesn't help that it's windy as hell and about to start raining - or even snowing - anytime now.

You might be wondering why I would be outside in the middle of the night in the middle of a storm when it's almost below twenty degrees outside. I'm wondering that myself, actually. Normally I wouldn't be out right now unless I was on a job… but I'm so fucking starving.

I get to the little 24 hour store on the corner and hurry inside. It's dry and the air is still, and I can hear the heater running and pause a moment just to enjoy it - the heat in my apartment hasn't been working right for weeks, so the only times I've felt really warm is when I'm inside a store or something.

At the jingle of the bell on the door, the guy behind the counter looks up. I give him a friendly smile. He narrows his eyes before offering a cold one in return, making me falter only a little. Unfriendly asshole. But I'm pretty much used to people thinking I'm little more than scum, and it doesn't really bother me so much anymore, so I let it go. He watches me carefully as I move around the shop, trying to figure out how much I can buy with the ten in my pocket, because between the rent and a lack of good hauls lately, it's all I have for now.

I can feel my heart sinking when I realize how little that amount really is.

He doesn't take his eyes off me. It's a little unnerving, especially when I look up and catch his eye, and he just gazes intently back at me. My smile this time is a little strained, a little uncomfortable. I wish he wouldn't stare at me like that.

I come up to the register with a loaf of bread and two bags of beef jerky. I give the cigarettes behind the counter a longing glance - because, dammit, I could really use a smoke - while he rings up the total. I can only just barely manage to cover the tax, so there's no way I can get my nicotine fix until I can get some more cash.

I give Mr. Creepy Staring Shopguy a thank you that's as cheery and polite as I can manage, to which he grunts and gives me a sarcastic smile that looks more like a sneer as he shakes out his newspaper. I pull my coat a little closer and head for the door. The air pressure from the wind pushes it back, and I grit my teeth against the freezing air that hits me. I can feel the shopkeeper's eyes follow me until I pass out of the view from the window. My food is in a paper bag that I hug close to my chest, trying to keep it as dry as possible, and I have two cents leftover in my pocket.

Back at my tiny apartment, I put the bread and jerky both in the fridge - because cold food sucks, but moldy food is worse - and then grin as I start pulling candy bars out of my sleeves. A box of Poptarts and a narrow jar of trail mix are pulled out of the front of my coat. These, and the candy, bread, and jerky, join the lone orange and half-gone bottle of apple juice on the shelf.

I eye my meager stockpile doubtfully and settle on a jerky and M&M sandwich for dinner. I should be good for another week with this.

* * *

We're in a restaurant, a proper one with individual menus and cloth napkins and real dishes and silverware. "We" includes me and Perry and Harmony, and the waiters have cleared away a chair so that Perry's wheelchair can fit at the table. Unfortunately, the table and chairs are too high, so it still comes up nearly to Perry's chest. He grimaces but says nothing. I think he believes it's worth it just to be out of the hospital and away from the horrible health food they shoved down our throats during our stay. I know I'm glad to have finally left.

I can feel both of them staring at me while I wolf down my food. I'm not sloppy or anything, but I still finish every crumb before either of them is half done, and then sit there fidgeting and feeling awkward for the rest of the meal. I laugh and try to brush it off, and they both smile a bit uncertainly, but I still catch them giving me sidelong looks when they think I can't see - this one says 'is Harry just being a weirdo again?' and the other says 'there must be something wrong.' Both of my two best friends are shooting me both those looks. Dammit. I mean, I know I have trouble keeping my emotions off my face at times, but really, this isn't something they need to worry about. Hell, this isn't something that _I _need to worry about.

Not anymore.

Inwardly, I'm kicking myself for it, berating myself. No one's going to take it away, Harry. It's not like this is another stolen meal you might catch trouble for, Harry. You have an income now, Harry, you don't need to worry about this being the last full meal you'll have for the week.

It doesn't work. I still feel that happy sort of feeling that comes with a full stomach, laced with the slightest flicker of dread that I won't see as much food as this for a while.

Harmony asks if I'm still hungry and it takes every ounce of willpower to say no. And I'm _not_, not really. I'm kinda used to not having much food, so I don't really want anything else right now. Except I do, because I'm kinda fucked up, if you haven't noticed, and if I didn't have my pride, I'd probably have asked for a box and scraped both their plates clean, just to ensure that I'd have some food for later. It's just instinct, or something, for me to be this careful about food, but I know it's not normal, and I _know _I can stop worrying about it, but I just _can't_.

Perry says nothing except that their garlic bread is too salty for his tastes as he puts his roll on my emptied plate. I manage to mutter a mortified thank you and chew it slowly, avoiding my best friends' eyes.

Worse still is the moment when it's time to pay the bill. Harmony tries to pay for me, but Perry is having none of it and insists on paying for all three of us. He waves his ATM card at us as an excuse, saying it makes more sense than each of us trying to pay for our separate meal when there's only one tab. Which is very efficient of him, just the sort of thing you'd expect from Perry. But he also refuses to accept reimbursement from Harmony.

My face burns and I shift uncomfortably, because Perry already paid for my recent medical bills. And not only were they extensive ('cause, yanno…bullet wounds, electrocution, spontaneous finger amputation-and-digestion, and general beatings kind of lead to an extensive bill) but I don't even have any medical insurance to help cover the cost either. And if _that _wasn't already enough, he's _also _offered me both a job with him _and _a place to stay. I mean, what the hell? I'm just the idiot from New York who got him _shot _within four days of meeting him. He really has no business trying to pay any of this, let alone for my food too, and let's also not forget Harmony's meal.

But even though I know all of this, even though I could technically pay for this particular meal myself, the selfish, self-preservation-y part of me is locked in place, making me reluctant to even offer. Not that Perry would even accept it anyways, I know. He'd just shove it back across the table at me like he did for Harmony. But there's still that little voice whispering that if I offered him the eight dollars, I wouldn't see them again, so I hold my tongue for once.

* * *

It's quiet in the car, the radio off for once because I can see the migraine building in the lines on Perry's forehead. It's late, past midnight, and we've been out on a surveillance for the past five hours. I'm exhausted, Perry is exhausted, and we both just want to go home.

I try to ignore the growling in my stomach and concentrate on everything I'm going to pile together into a sandwich when we get home. I want turkey, chicken, and ham, and tomatoes, and olives, American cheese and some of that fancy havarti stuff Perry likes, and put it all between wheat bread slathered with ranch dressing. God, I'm hungry…you know what, I actually don't care what's on it as long as it's FOOD… and this so isn't helping.

I'm so distracted I hardly notice Perry pulling into a shopping center parking lot until I hear the static on the intercom. _"Hi, welcome to Taco Bell! What can I get you?"_

I shift a little and stare at Perry. "What are you doing, Perry? You hate Taco Bell."

"Well I figured you were hungry. Or was your stomach just having a lover's quarrel with your intestines?"

I blink and grin, and quickly tell him what I want before he changes his mind.

Five minutes later, and Perry sipping a diet coke through a straw while I chow down on a grilled stuft burrito. I moan with appreciation and Perry makes a face.

"Thank you, Perry," I say before he can complain about the noise. If my voice sounds too happy over a burrito, I tell myself it's because it's a damned good burrito. It's not because I am no longer damned hungry. It's _certainly_ not because Perry is being nice to me. Which he _isn't_. Not really, anyways. My stomach growls were probably just making his headache worse.

"Just don't get beans on the seat," is all he says.

* * *

I readjust the damp washcloth on my forehead for what feels like the hundredth time and let out a miserable sigh that wastes no time turning into a rough cough. It feels like my throat is tearing itself up, and by the time I regain control over myself, Perry has appeared in the living room door, eyeing me with concern. Oh boy, I must look _really _bad to be getting _that _look from him now.

He stands there and watches me sniffle. I sit here and watch the television screen. After a minute, he moves into the room, closer to where I've curled up on the couch. "Harry, are you hungry? You should eat some dinner. You haven't eaten all day."

I groan. I _am _hungry. But I haven't eaten all day because I was certain if I tried, I'd just throw it back up, and Perry would kill me if I stained his perfect white carpets. I shake my head and manage to rasp out a 'no, thank you,' ignoring both the look on his face and the churning in my stomach.

He doesn't move, and I steal a glance at him. Fuck, why is he still giving me that look, like I'm a puppy he wants to take home and fatten up? Perry doesn't even _like_ puppies, and he's certainly not the type to take one home to feed. Anyways, I go back to staring fixedly at the TV as soon as our eyes meet, and he doesn't say anything. I pointedly ignore his presence until the commercials finally come on, at which point I steal another glance…

But he's gone from the room. Fuck me, I've been pointedly ignoring an empty room. You'd think, since I'm sick, Perry would at least have the decency to stay in one spot and let me ignore him but nooooo, he has to be all, sneaky-ninja-Perry and disappear in the middle of me ignoring him. Fuck. Now I'm sick, hungry, _and _embarrassed.

I sit up, a bit tired, but not too weak, and hit the mute button on the clicker. Without the blaring noise from the soap commercial (why are the commercials always like, ten times as loud as the program? It's ridiculous and annoying) I can hear Perry in the kitchen, pans clattering as he starts to cook.

I stay on the couch for couple minutes, watching the commercials on mute and listening to Perry making something. The show comes back on, but I don't un-mute it yet. Instead, as I hear something start to sizzle in a pan, I get up from the couch, pulling a blanket around my shoulders, and pad into the next room.

Perry's standing at the stove, frying something up. There's a bowl on the counter and a collection of various ingredients that I look over as I sit down at the table. It's a really strange assortment of items to have out for one dish. I try to imagine what they might make together, but my head aches too badly to figure it out. I give up and rest my head on my arms with another pitiful groan that makes my manhood wince, but I feel too shitty to actually be all embarrassed over it.

I'm still watching Perry, and he seems to notice. He glances over his shoulder and frowns. "Stay over there. I don't want your cold germs in _my _dinner," he says.

I try to snort and fail through the congestion, instead triggering another coughing fit. "Oh thanks," I finally manage to gasp out. "Your concern for my well-being is so touching."

"Shut up," he says, but there's no heat in the words. I turn my head to press my eyes into my arm, shutting out the impossibly bright kitchen lights.

Ten minutes later a plate is thunked down in front of my face, startling me. I lift my head a little to see a short, steaming stack of pancakes in front of me, a little butter and syrup (less than usual) dripping down the sides. My whole mouth waters.

Perry sits down across from me. He has eggs and bacon with his pancakes, but the very sight of them makes my stomach clench and I have to look away. For a minute, I'm very glad that I can't smell anything.

Perry frowns at me again. "Eat that. I know you don't feel good, but you need to have something. It'll probably help settle your stomach just to have something in it anyways." He takes a bite of eggs.

I stare at him dolefully, then look down at the pancakes. Fuck, they look great. My stomach growls and Perry smirks. I give him a glare as I pick up my fork, but it's too soft for him to feel offended, just like his snarking earlier was too soft to offend me.

The pancakes are… really good, soft and sweet and hot. Perry makes the best pancakes I've ever had anywhere. Normally I'd have more syrup than is on these, but if I had any more sugar on this, I probably really would throw up. Didn't really matter, they were still perfect just like this. Perry's pancakes (and wouldn't that make a great name for a breakfast diner) would even be great cold with nothing on them.

Actually, I've had them cold and they were almost even better. People underestimate the value of cold and reheated foods sometimes. I guess I'm more used to it because back in New York, that was sometimes all I had, but even now that I'm living with Perry and don't have to have food that's cold or not quite fresh, every now and then I'll have a hankering for some of the foods that I'd found tasted as good or better when you're just slumming the kitchen….goddammit, I'm getting sidetracked again!

Of course, Perry was right; within five bites of pancake-y goodness, the weight in my stomach has helped calm it down, and I no longer feeling like I'm going to make a mess on the floor. I speed up and start taking bigger bites, and Perry actually has to tell me to slow down a little, but he's smirking as he says it and the lines on his forehead have smoothed out a little, and I realize I've been worrying him. I almost feel guilty, but then I remember, I'm sick! Of course he should be worrying about me!

By the time I've finished I can feel myself starting to doze off right there at the table. Perry sweeps my plate out from under me before I get a face full of syrup, taking it to the sink to rinse it. "Go to bed, idiot." He says without looking up.

I sleepily murmur an agreement and get up, yawning. "Thanks, Per," I slur on my way out, "was really good…"

Twenty minutes later, I've poured myself into bed and am drifting into some much-needed rest when I hear the door crack open. I roll over and look back at my door to see Perry peeking in, checking on me. He looks a little uncomfortable when he sees that I've seen him being all protective and caretaker-y. Our eyes stay locked as he seems to argue with himself whether or not he should say something, and finally he spits out whatever gay, sentimental thing he's stressing over saying.

"Sleep well, Harry."

I look back at him for a moment before flipping over entirely to face him and close my eyes again. "Night, Per."

* * *

End

GODDAMN. I WANT PANCAKES NOW. (also I promise there will be happy fics in here too! ;A; Really!)


	4. Hard at Work

**Title: **Hard at Work

**Summary:** Procrastination can be so inspiring.

**Copyrights Disclaimer: **Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language and sexual content

**Author's Note:** Just a tiny little PWP fluffy bit inspired by a drawing my friend at LJ drew, which you can see here: http : / img. photobucket. com / albums / v616/I - Iris / hardly working . jpg

* * *

Perry looked up for the third time to see Harry staring at him from across the office. The younger man had been idling at his desk all day, working through the stack of paperwork on his desk more slowly than usual. Perry understood perfectly; he wasn't fond of paperwork either, and both of them had far too much energy to be stuck inside at a desk today. But it _did_ have to get done.

Fifteen minutes later, he took another look. Harry was _still _staring at him, and the paper he had in front of him was the same one that had been there forty-five minutes ago. Finally, under the strain of his own boredom paired with Harry's slacking, Perry's temper snapped. He slammed his pen down on the table and glared. "Dammit, Harry, focus on your work!"

Harry smirked and propped his head up on his arm. "I _am_ focusing."

Perry narrowed his eyes, and opened his mouth to say something, then shut it with a snap when the younger man abruptly stood up. Perry watched with _(interest)_ uncertainty as Harry positively _slinked_ across the room and pulled Perry's chair away from his desk. The brunette somehow managed to straddle Perry's lap, wedging his knees in between Perry and the arms of the desk chair and getting the both of them well and thoroughly stuck in the tight space.

Very tight, if the state of Harry's jeans was any indication.

The ex-thief leaned down and skimmed his breath over Perry's ear. "Oh yes, I'm working _very_ hard," he whispered lasciviously.

The detective's eyes widened and he instinctively grasped Harry's waist, trying to wrestle his libido back under control. Unfortunately, his excellent senses had turned their full attention to three points: A) a clever tongue, tracing the outer edge of his ear. B) the warm skin of Harry's abdomen under his hands, C) a distinct, hard, heated bulge at Harry's groin, being pressed against his lower stomach.

Harry then nearly ruined the entire _(sexy)_ effect by sitting back on Perry's thighs and waggling his eyebrows with an amused grin. It should have looked ridiculous, but somehow, Harry could make _that _of all things actually look good.

Perry promptly decided he didn't care how much work they finished today. He seized Harry by the head and pulled him in for a kiss.

_'Well, at least I know he can focus on __something__,'_ Perry thought.

* * *

End

I have several much longer stories coming, but they're only half-done. I hope this will tide you over for now! Thanks so much to my three reviewers thus far: j'adore macabre, slashfan88, and Storystuff. Love you all!


	5. Pear and Hair

**Title:** Pear and Hair

**Summary:** Nicknames are obnoxious, for obvious reasons.

**Copyrights Disclaimer:** Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

**Warnings/Rating:** PG-13 for language

**Author's Note:** This… is ridiculously pointless, and pointlessly ridiculous. I have no idea. I really don't. I'm sorry. Why am I posting this shit again?

* * *

"Per, take a look at this, I think that that one guy we were…hey, Per, are you listening to me?

"Perry."

"What?"

"My name is not 'Per.' You call me by my _name_, not your dumb idea of a pet name."

"But Per is shorter!"

"It doesn't need to be shorter! 'Perry' is already short!"

"Not as short as Per."

"It's short _for_ something, dumbass."

"Really? What's it short for?"

"Peregrin."

"…Per can be short for Peregrin too."

"Yeah? Do I go around calling you "Har" 'cause it's short for both Harry and Harold? No! Because it sounds ridiculous! I don't call you Har, so you stop calling me fruit!"

"But it's so fitting!"

"…"

"You look really fucking scary when you grin like that, you know that, Per?"

* * *

end

I swear I'll post an actual story soon... you know, with a plot, and character development, and all that good stuff...and, you know...a _point_. *cries* I hope you giggled, at the very least.


	6. The Way You Touch, The Way You Move

**Title:** The Way You Touch, The Way You Move

**Summary:** Sometimes a single feature becomes a representative of the whole, all at once multi-layered and simplicity itself.

**Disclaimer:** Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and all characters therein are © Shane Black and Co.

**Warnings/Rating:** T for brief coarse language and sexual content

**Promptfill:** "Harry/Perry. Hand kink" (also, my theme song for writing this was totally "I Like The Way You Move" by Bodyrockers, from which I got the title)

**Author's Note: **Okay I lied at the end of the last chapter. Here, have some PWP. At least there's sexy times in this one. (lol I actually got so carried away with that scene, I almost had to bump up the overall rating) LALALALA TOTALLY AM NOT STALLING ON LIKE 4-5 OTHER WIP'S, WHATCHU TALKIN' ABOUT?

(6-25-11 edited a portion of the second part a little)

* * *

Perry is going mad; that is all there is to it. Harry was already crazy, of course, and he's dragging Perry right down with him. He just can't stop staring… but that would be a whole lot easier if Harry would just stop moving so much.

It seems like every time Harry does something, just the slightest little motion, Perry's attention is immediately grabbed. He feels like a cat chasing a laser pointer sometimes, when he's watching Harry. The man is incapable of remaining still for more than a few minutes.

His hands are the worst - and simultaneously, the best, because by now, Perry can't even make himself want to stop watching them flying and fluttering, just as expressive as the man's face. He was so unrestrained; he had no qualms about letting everything running through his mind not only coming spilling out of his mouth, but flow from every part of his being. His hands seemed to be the highlighted outlet for this purpose.

He gestures while he talks. He gestures when he's quiet. He fucking _dances_ to anything remotely resembling music, up to and including things only he seems to hear sometimes, somewhere in the workings of that mysterious little thing he calls a brain. He even does it while he's on the phone, with his cell or the office or home phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder to allow for the wild gesticulating despite the other person not being able to see him.

The strange part, or maybe not so much strange as simply most noticeable, is that the movements of his hands always tie directly into what he's saying so seamlessly. People take as many cues about Harry's feelings and opinions from how his hands are moving as they do from the tone of his voice or the twisting of his facial features. It would not seem so out of the ordinary had they been anywhere but L.A., where people are so false-faced that their words tie literally more into simple nothing than into communication.

Harry is completely unabridged and uncensored, and Perry has never been more attracted to anything in his life. He tries to blame L.A., but there's really no point in that. He'll never know if he would have still found Harry so compellingly real if he'd lived somewhere else. But even if he did not in this theoretical alternate setting, Perry does in the here and now. As a realist, that is all that matters to him in the end. So he accepts it, and deals with it.

It would be so easy to ignore it and carry on, if it weren't for those goddamned hands. Those graceful, thieving, careworn, elegant magician's hands, constantly moving and drawing his attention back to them, interchangeably ruggedly capable in form, and intricately playful of movement. He tries hard not to notice, and he tries not to let Harry notice that he notices, because if Harry knew some of things that Perry imagined him doing with his hands, he was certain that Harry would panic worse than he had the time Perry kissed him, back on their first case together. And the last thing he wants is for Harry to leave.

* * *

Now, as for Harry, he _likes_ watching Perry move, and does not bother trying to hide his glances. If Perry notices and asks why the fuck Harry is staring at him, Harry's usual response is to just smile and calmly move his attention to something else for a few minutes, and then let his eyes wander back to Perry.

He can't help it, really. The detective is just so fluid and efficient, his motions all militarily precise and never, ever, wasted. He wishes sometimes that he could adopt that kind of economy in his own mannerisms. Maybe people would take him more seriously if he didn't flail around like a sugar-high five-year-old all the time.

It doesn't take him long to realize that watching the older man move turned him on, and far more than just a mild, oh-dear-maybe-I-like-men-as-well sort of way. If the idea of feeling that sort of attraction towards another man was disconcerting at all, it was swallowed up by Harry's intense and innate curiosity. Sex with a man would, of course, be very different than sex with a woman, but not necessarily in a bad way. Skin and sweat and friction was the same whether it was attached to a male or female form, after all. At its most essential basics, sex was about human contact, preferably with someone you loved.

Perry is definitely someone Harry loved. He's known that since their third case together, when Perry had smiled at him over a late night cup of coffee and thanked him for being a kind-hearted idiot all the time. He had said that he wished more people could be like Harry, and then maybe the world wouldn't be such a fucked-up place. Even knowing that Perry was pretty whacked out on painkillers for his dislocated shoulder at the time couldn't stop Harry from feeling absolutely touched, and just like that, Harry had realized he really, truly loved this man. And just like that, as though all he needed to feel attracted to someone was to acknowledge that he loved them, his body started noticing Perry's body.

In particular, Harry's eyes are constantly drawn to the older man's hands. Often, he finds himself fantasizing about those hands running over his body. He wonders fretfully, on occasion, if he is focusing on Perry's hands so that he won't be thinking of something _else_, something that is only associated with a male partner; because hands are hands, and both men and women alike can use those to greatly pleasurable effect.

After the first time he has this disconcerting thought, Harry begins to pay even more careful attention to Perry's hands, drinking in every fine detail. With time and thought, he is relieved to determine that no, he is not just androgynizing Perry in his mind to get around the gay factor. No, those hands are too distinctively Perry to make Harry think of a woman's touch, an allegory that Harry delights in unraveling and picking apart. And from the pieces, he begins to assemble a deeper understanding of this man, and why Harry finds him so compelling.

Perry's hands, he's taken care to notice, are large and strong; they could easily fold around Harry's fist and hide it almost entirely from view.

Perry's hands are not as dexterous as his own, a fact that Harry takes gleeful pleasure rubbing in Perry's face every chance he gets; it's not like he gets one-up on Perry very often, after all.

Perry's hands are not as habitually tactile as Harry's either. For all their assertiveness, they keep to themselves more often than not, reluctant to make contact. Often, when contact is made, it lingers, light and gentle, as though they are afraid to break as much as they are to pull away.

And, Harry has secretly observed, Perry's hands are lightly callused and neatly kept. He will treasure the memory of walking in on Perry giving himself a manicure until the day he dies. Perry's fury from the encroachment on his privacy was well worth the mockery material (Perry has no shame, or it would have been blackmail material as well).

Perry's fury was also just as well-worth the sensuous image itself, but Perry doesn't need to know about that part. He would never let Harry hear the end of it if he knew.

* * *

It continues with a look. They had been talking, arguing, or something, neither can even remember now, because when you stop mid-sentence and realize what the expression on your companion's face is saying, the sounds coming out of either mouth stop mattering so much. That expression was a concession, a confession, a permission slip to reach out and touch - _finally, finally_ - and they both stretched out their hands at almost the same time, Harry just a little bit ahead of Perry for once, instead of the other way around.

Slight surprise registered then as well, and that odd, bashfully awkward feeling you get when you are walking towards someone, and they towards you, and you both veer to the same side to walk around, both double-take back the other way, and again, until you both grin and chuckle and finally get it right and pass without touching. Except that neither Perry nor Harry was inclined to veer to either side, and so when they both reached to cup the other's cheek, their hands instead met in midair. This has worked out better in the end anyways, because now they both hold the focal point on their respective objects of admiration, quite literally, in the palms of their hands.

Their fingertips touch first, and they freeze for a split second. Then Harry turns his wrist so that the heel of his palm comes forward to kiss Perry's, and their fingers straighten out, hands pressing flat against each other. Harry opens his mouth, and Perry is suddenly terrified that the idiot is going to make some dumb Disney Tarzan joke and ruin the moment, so he leans forward in his seat like he's going to kiss him. Harry copies the motion eagerly, and their foreheads touch and they freeze again. Perry twists his gaze away from the mahogany orbs in front of him, moving to their hands pressed against each other. He slides the pads of his fingertips down the underside of Harry's fingers, the ring finger thrown off a little from the missing phalanges on its partner, but that's okay. It even almost works as a dumb sort of metaphor, Perry thinks, and then promptly mentally scolds himself.

Their fingers are curled around each other like kittens, and Perry's palm is itching from the sensation of Harry's weather-beaten skin against his. Then Harry's fingers twitch, and opposing digits slip between each other like water, and their hands are pressed palm to palm, fingers tangled casually, lovingly.

Perry is hard as a rock and he hasn't even kissed Harry yet. From Harry's rough breathing he can tell the younger man is feeling it too, this intense awareness of the other's presence, heated and real against his palm. It is a closer and more intimate connection with another person than he's ever felt in his life… or maybe that's just the long-denied sexual tension storming up to the surface, but somehow Perry doesn't think so.

As though realizing the others are being neglected, Harry now takes Perry's left hand in his right, tangling the fingers together here too, marking the difference in texture and color and size between their hands. Harry studies those hands, and glances back at the first pair, and pulls all fifteen-and-a-half fingers, all four thumbs, all four hands, to meet in front of them, clasped between his chin and Perry's, still leaning his forehead against the blonde's. Perry is watching their hands, watching the tendons flex under the skin when Harry squeezes his palm. Harry smiles at how intent Perry is in his examinations, always so focused.

An eternity later, Perry finally looks up, meets Harry's gaze, and presses a soft kiss against the tip of each finger. He lingers a little longer on the damaged one, and Harry has to hold back a throaty moan at the sparks even this gentle contact send up the raw nerve endings there. Partly to keep from making any sounds, partly just because he wants to, and partly to avenge his gently abused finger, Harry retaliates by sucking Parry's left thumb into his mouth whole. The first reason he had for doing so is swiftly discarded when Perry swipes against the back of Harry's teeth with the pad of his thumb, and he has to close his eyes and groan heartily.

He tastes salt and laves at it, pressing his tongue against the digit. Harry lets Perry slip the other four fingers free from his, shifting his wrist to get better access to Harry's mouth. Harry bites gently at the base, and the rest of that large warm hand presses against his cheek. Harry places his free hand over it, trapping it there. Perry is the one who groans this time, even louder than Harry.

Harry slowly opens his eyes and watches Perry steadily, suckling his thumb. Perry withdraws it slowly, and the feel of that slightly rough skin running over his lower lip is enough to make him buck slightly. Perry moves from his place then, adjusting Harry on the couch so that they are facing each other properly. Harry is laying back and Perry is straddling his hips, bringing their erections into maddening proximity, but Harry's mind has fixed, as it does sometimes, onto one point: Perry's hands.

Perry's hands, which have now slipped free and are roaming all over his body, down his sides, across his stomach, back up to his chest to tweak his nipple through his shirt. Harry gasps and arches his back, but just as he's leaning into the contact it is gone, Perry's hands skittering back down his abdomen to take hold of his waist.

He no longer knows what to do with his own hands, and they twitch and flail a little in midair before finally landing on Perry's shoulders and wandering off on some territorial explorations of their own.

Harry's fingers dance across the skin of his shoulders, pulling him down in close so that their lips finally touch. The kiss is heaven, is life, is what Perry has been searching for, but Harry's hands are still moving, still very distracting. Rough palms slide up his neck, clever fingers slide into his hair, tangling into his ponytail and pulling him in even closer. Fingernails scraping lightly against his scalp make him shiver, and his grip on Harry's hips tightens as he thrusts against the brunette, tense from trying to restrain the movement.

Then Harry raises his hips, and their groins are grinding against each other. Perry is shaking from the effort it takes to keep himself raised up, not wanting to collapse on top of the smaller man and crush him. With a growl, he gives Harry's waist one last squeeze and moves his hands up to press into the couch on either side of Harry's head, giving himself better support and better leverage to thrust against him.

Harry wants to protest the loss of Perry's hands on him, but the friction down there is enough to distract him for a moment, and he finds himself pressing up harder, pulling Perry in closer, and his moan is just as much pleasure as disappointment.

His arms are starting to cramp, so he loosens up a little. His left hand lets go of Perry's hair and strokes gently against the back of the blonde's neck, caressing, gentle. His right is pulled back between them, reaching down to tug at the hem of Perry's shirt.

The brilliant idea to flip them over so that he is on top suddenly pops into Harry's head.

Before he has time to give the matter any further thought, Harry impulsively surges upwards and turns over on his side at the same time. Perry is flung off the couch, pulling away from the kiss with a startled cry. Instinctively, he grabs at Harry, trying to keep from falling, but all he does is pull Harry off the couch with him. Harry, of course, goes along with this quite happily, until he remembers the part where he has to land on top of Perry.

By then it's too late, and Perry lands on his back hard, and then Harry lands solidly on top of him, knocking the wind out of him and barely missing knocking their heads together.

"Fuck!" Perry gasps, wincing, "The hell did you do that for?"

Harry cringes and pushes himself up painfully; Perry wasn't as good of a landing pad as he'd thought. "Sorry, sorry! Ow. Fuck, that was stupid. Sorry."

Perry puts a hand up on his forehead, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and tries to glare at the brunette kneeling over him. Harry looks just as dazed as he feels, boner still heavy against Perry's thigh, and eyes cloudy with a mixture of lust and dizziness. Perry's aggravation melts away, and he can't help but burst into laughter.

Harry squints down at him, cracking a grin of his own, and Perry tugs him down closer, murmuring a fond "C'mere, dumbass," through his snickering. Harry smiles and lays down against Perry's chest, and Perry's arms wrap around him as they dissolve into hysterical giggles.

After a minute they quiet down some, and Harry tilts his head back to look at Perry, and Perry twists down a little to look back at him, and simultaneously the giggles break out again.

Another few minutes pass, and the mirth fades out enough that they can breath again. Harry stretches to plant a firm kiss on Perry's lips. Perry cups his face and pulls him into a deeper one, but the giggle fit still hasn't loosed its hold yet. They are smiling against each other's mouths, and laughing too hard to keep kissing. So they pull apart and nuzzle each other like cats, still chuckling. Harry tucks his head under Perry's chin and listens to the vibrations in his chest, and looks down at their entwined hands laying clasped together, and smiles.

* * *

End.

Mmmm PWP. What would I do without you to keep me sane?

Oh, and if you are curious about those WIPs I mentioned at the top of the page, they include:

Sorry to Burst Your Bubble: a 24 chapter KKBB fic with Perry/Harry/Harmony and a shitload of kissing

Bricks Without Clay - my epic ongoing KKBB/SH crossover of DOOOOM

Haunted By You - a Sherlock Holmes one-shot featuring a ghostly Moriarty

Skins and Hearts - a Sherlock Holmes mythology AU, with Selkie!Holmes

If any of those sound like something you'd be interested in, then you should be keeping an eye on my profile page, or add me to your watch list, because those will be getting posted within the next month and a half; within the week on those last two! ;)


End file.
